it’s all over the news,” Joan Briggs said. “It’s all the networks are covering.”
“Serves me right for not paying attention to current events,” Kori told her mom. She and Anya had essentially quit for the day, agreeing to meet for breakfast the next morning to reset. They’d finished their drinks, eaten some dessert, and realized they were unmistakably frustrated and unequivocally stumped. They agreed a good night’s sleep couldn’t hurt, and Kori had decided to call her mother before slipping into a hot tub.
“The whole world is wondering where the prince is,” her mother continued. “I mean, it’s as if he simply disappeared. Just fell off the face of the planet!”
“Crazy, huh? Well, I’m sure he’ll turn up. Maybe he’s just on some private vacation somewhere.”
“Without telling anyone about it?”
“Well, he’s a prince. Probably figured he didn’t need to.”
“I’m not so sure, Kori. You know what I read in Star Globe Magazine?”
“Oh boy, is that one of your gossip tabloids, Mom?”
“Kori, Star Globe Magazine is a well-respected news source! They were the ones who broke the George Clooney story, remember?”
“Who could forget?”
“Anyway, they’re reporting that Prince Grayson has a serious gambling problem.”
“Really?”
“Really. He’s a gambling addict. It’s been hidden all these years, but apparently, it’s caught up with him. He owes a ton of money.”
“To whom?”
“Well, the article doesn’t exactly say.”
“Then how does Star Globe know he owes a ton of money?”
“They know, Kori. It’s their job to know. They’re investigative reporters, remember? They investigate.”
Kori winced.
Joan continued. “Anyway, they’re thinking he couldn’t pay off his gambling debts and so someone came along and pulled a Jimmy Hoffa on him. Maybe this guy whose picture they keep showing. They’re thinking the prince’s body might never be found. Isn’t that something? The whole thing gives me shivers.”
Kori was thoughtful for a moment then said, “Mom, where is this Star Globe article? Can I find it online?”
“Sure. That’s where I read it. It’s on their website. Of course, I subscribe so I get notifications. I’ll send you a link if you’d like.”
“Would you, Mom? Sounds kind of interesting. Maybe I should start paying more attention to what’s going on in the world, huh?”
“You should, Kori! You get too wrapped up in your job. By the way, how’s everything going there in Boston?”
“It’s fine, Mom. You know, same old stuff. Work’s work. Speaking of which, I better get back to it. My coffee break is just about over and I’ve got a lot to do yet today. Send me that link, though, will you?”
“I will, dear. Don’t work too hard.”
“I’ll try not to. Love you, Mom.”
A few minutes later, Kori was reading a story entitled Prince Grayson’s Gambling Addiction Might Have Cost Him His Life! Ten minutes after that, she was mulling the story over from the comfort of her hot bath, weighing the credibility of Star Globe Magazine, and trying to find a way to make the story fit into the reality of the missing prince.
“Star Globe Magazine, Kori?”
“I know, I know, but keep an open mind for a second.” At Jean-Georges restaurant at the Connaught, the agents were having the Connaught Breakfast. Kori was halfway through an apple chausson while Anya was working on her scrambled eggs.
Just three days remained until Dempsey’s deadline.
“Anya, Grayson’s valet, Kingsley Moore, confided to me that Grayson and Sir John Holland play cards at White’s all the time and for pretty high stakes.”
“So? They are both rich men.”
“Of course. But did you know that John Holland’s middle name is Emery?”
“No. So what?”
“JEH, Anya. Sir John Holland is the founder and president of JEH Financial Group.”
Anya put her fork down. “Interesting, my friend. I did not know that little piece of information.”
“Neither did I until I did a quick search. I suppose I should have, but it really never occurred to me to make the connection. I had no idea how Holland made his money. But think about it. Those promissory notes. There was nothing in them about the nature of the money owed. Could they be for gambling debts that Grayson owes Holland?”
“Maybe. But why run the debts through his company, Kori? Why not a personal loan? And why put it in writing at all if they are such good friends?”
“I don’t know. But there must be a reason.”
“Maybe they are not such good friends.”
“Maybe not.”
“But, Kori, you are assuming there is truth to the Star Globe story.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s definitely the weakest link of the theory.”
“Was there a byline? We could question the reporter. Determine his source.”
“Yeah, I thought of that. The reporter was some guy by the name of Cameron Riley. One of their top reporters, from what I could gather. The problem is, talking to him would only give him more fodder for his next piece. Can’t you see the headline? ‘American Investigators Now on the Hunt for the Prince.’”
“True.”
“If you want to keep a low profile, you don’t go to Star Globe Magazine. My guess is that this guy Riley’s source, if there’s any truth to the story, is someone at White’s. That’s where the card games took place, after all. Maybe even Edwards, the steward we met at the door. I know how these rags work. They offer a ton of money to someone who can give them a scoop. Everyone’s got their price.”
“Or maybe it was Kingsley Moore. As his valet, he probably knows as much about Grayson’s personal life as anyone. And he was the one who mentioned the card games.”
“Well, yeah, maybe.”
“Was there any mention in the article of John Holland?”
“None.”
“Holland’s name is a pretty relevant piece of the story. If it’s true.”
“Right. So whoever spilled the beans about the debts must have kept Holland’s name out of it.”
“Then that would suggest Edwards.”
“Why?”
“He is the steward,” Anya said. “He may have his price for information, but he is still sworn to protect the privacy of the club’s members.”
“He sure wasn’t in any hurry to tell us anything.”
“So presumably he was willing to talk about the gambling debts, but stopped short of giving the Star Globe reporter the name of Holland.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. But you know what? It doesn’t really matter. It doesn’t even matter if the article wasn’t entirely factual. We have Kingsley Moore’s confirmation of high-stakes poker games between Grayson and Holland, and we have confirmation of large amounts of money owed to JEH Financial, Holland’s company. My mother’s interest in the tabloids, God bless her, connected the dots for us.”
“Ah, but here is what we do not have, Kori: A connection between those things and the fact that the prince has been kidnapped by Newton Dempsey of Boston, Massachusetts.”
Kori was quiet for a moment. “You’re right, of course, Anya,” she said at last. “Damn. So you think this is another rabbit hole like the Spenser Burke lead or following Andrew Quincy around?”
“Well . . . maybe. Sir John Holland certainly doesn’t need to be involved in the kidnapping of a prince any more than the Turner crime family does. If one were looking for likely suspects, those two would be pretty far toward the bottom of the list.”
“Damn,” Kori repeated.
“And so we are stuck, it seems.”
“Maybe. But, rabbit hole or no rabbit hole, I think we ought to follow up on this matter of Grayson’s debts, don’t you?”
“How?”
“I think we need to confront Parker Bates with what we now know. He was the guy holding the promissory notes, after all. Heck, maybe he was the guy who spilled the beans to Cameron Riley. Why did he keep Grayson’s debts from me when I questioned him? What is he hiding?”
“A legitimate question.”
“Let’s make Bates’s townhouse today’s first stop.”
“I have no better ideas, my friend. Down the rabbit hole we go.”
“You again,” Bates said answering his door. “And now I see you’ve brought a friend. Have you any news on the prince?”
“I’m afraid we still have more questions than answers,” said Kori. “More questions than what I had the other day, as a matter of fact, Mr. Bates.”
“Well, Ms. Briggs, I have told you everything I know, I assure you. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” Bates began to close the door.
“How come you didn’t tell me about the 632,980 pounds?” Kori said, sliding her foot into the doorway.
Bates looked taken aback for a moment but recovered quickly. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“Sure you do. The 632,980 pounds that the prince owes to JEH Financial. John Emery Holland.”
Bates’s expression turned into one of resignation. He opened the door and waved the agents inside. “How did you find out?” he asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” Kori replied as the three moved into the living room. “The important thing is we believe that’s a pretty relevant nugget of information, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I’m afraid I would not agree, Ms. Briggs. I cannot see how it is the least bit relevant to my employer’s disappearance.”
“When you owe somebody a lot of money and you can’t pay, sometimes strange things happen, Mr. Bates. Dangerous things, at that.”
“Are you suggesting John Holland is behind the kidnapping? That’s preposterous. If I thought that, believe me, I would have said something to you. Don’t you think I’d like for Prince Grayson to be found? To be brought safely home? He is my boss but he is also my friend, Ms. Briggs. I didn’t mention the debt because, well, first of all, you didn’t ask.”
“I asked you about Grayson’s relationship with Holland.”
“Second of all, can you imagine the embarrassment if the prince’s debt became a matter of public record? It’s bad enough that the gossip rags are reporting a gambling addiction. It’s sickening.”
Kori and Anya exchanged glances, both thinking the same thing: It must not have been Bates who spilled the beans.
“Does the prince have a gambling addiction?” Kori asked.
“Certainly not, Ms. Briggs. Well, I mean, the prince likes to wager, of course. But it’s all in fun. He does like his card games, I must say. And the horses. Sometimes he bets on football. And rugby. But a gambling addiction?”
“I don’t know, Bates. You don’t get that far into debt by having total control over your actions. Most people would have stopped long before.”
“Maybe,” Bates acknowledged. “Nevertheless, Ms. Briggs, my interest, and my job as the prince’s private secretary is to make certain that information such as this does not come to light. Surely, you can understand that.”
Kori looked at Anya who shrugged.
“Okay, Mr. Bates,” Kori said. “We understand. The prince’s secret is safe with us.”
“Thank you.”
“So who do you think tipped off the tabloids? Star Globe was the first to break the story of his gambling.”
“I assume it was a lucky guess on their part. They make stuff up. Every now and again, they’re bound to get close to the truth, but it’s typically an accident.”
“Well, listen, Mr. Bates, as long as we’re here, if you have any other little details we should know about, this would be a good time to clue us in.”
“I can assure you that you now know everything I know.”
The agents walked toward the door. Bates opened it and then turned to Kori with a somber expression. “You will find him, won’t you Ms. Briggs?”
“We’ll give it everything we can, Mr. Bates.”
Bates closed the door behind them. On the sidewalk, Kori turned to Anya. “What do you think?”
“He does not know anything else. You saw that look on his face. By not telling you about the debt or the supposed gambling problem, he was only trying to be a good employee.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“He is a sincere man. In a tough spot.”
“Agreed.”
“So what now?”
“Hmm . . .” Kori contemplated the situation for a moment and then replied, “I’d love to talk to John Holland, wouldn’t you? I agree with Bates that his involvement would be ‘preposterous,’ but he’s got to know something.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Because billionaires always know something. That’s how they get to be billionaires. They have their fingers on the pulse of the world around them, and for Holland, that includes the world of Prince Grayson. The only thing is, we could never get near him. Guys like Holland keep themselves completely inaccessible. His assistant would refer us to his executive assistant who would refer us to his secretary who would refer us to his executive secretary who would refer us to his personal, private, executive secretary who would probably refer us to his attorney. We’d need a warrant just to get in the front door.”
“Yes, I see what you mean.”
“But that doesn’t mean we can’t follow him around for a bit. Maybe corner him somewhere and start asking him some questions.”
“Okay, I’m game. Where do we start?”
“Well, we know where JEH Financial Group is located. Let’s start there.”
As Kori knew all too well, the life of an intelligence agent isn’t all nonstop action and adventure. Sometimes, many times, in fact, it includes mind-numbing surveillance for hours on end. And so it was that she found herself sitting on a bench across from a five-story glass and concrete building at 23 Queen Victoria Street, the headquarters for JEH Financial Group.
And sitting. And sitting.
Anya was watching the back entrance of the building. The pair had rented a car which, for lack of parking on London’s streets, was double-parked within Anya’s view, allowing her to jump up and drive it around the block anytime she noticed parking enforcement nearby, which, fortunately, wasn’t very often.
James Foster at Rampart HQ had texted both agents several pictures of Sir John Holland so they had a good idea of whom they were looking for. There were precious few pictures that could be found online; Holland kept himself out of the spotlight. Nobody seemed to know very much about his personal life. If Grayson was the reclusive prince, Holland was the reclusive billionaire. All that was generally known about Sir John Holland was that he was one of the richest men in the United Kingdom.
For four hours the agents waited. Finally, Kori noticed a black Rolls-Royce Phantom pull up to the main entrance of the building. A neatly dressed driver got out and walked around to the passenger side, positioned to open the rear door for whomever the car was meant for. Kori called Anya on her cell.
“Anya, bring the car around!” she said. “A five-hundred-thousand-dollar, chauffeur-driven automobile just pulled up. Who do you think the passenger is going to be?”
“On my way,” Anya replied.
Kori saw their Hyundai come around the block just about the same time that none other than Sir John Holland himself came out of the front door. Fifty-five years old, Holland was tall with a light mustache and his gait was purposeful; he carried himself almost regally, Kori observed, like you’d expect of a billionaire. Holland slid into the back seat of the Rolls just as Anya pulled over, half a block behind. Kori trotted back to the rental and got in. The driver of the Rolls pulled away. The Hyundai followed.
The route took them east for fifteen minutes to the A13, through Whitechapel for another fifteen minutes, and then on a side street.
“Kori, I cannot get used to this driving on the left,” said Anya. “How do they do it here?”
“You’re doing fine,” Kori said.
The Rolls took a right from the side street and soon stopped in front of a small, two-story, brick office building. Anya drove past and then pulled over a block ahead in front of an apartment building. Both agents turned and watched through the rear window as Holland exited the Rolls and got into the driver’s seat of a much more modest car.
“Cripes, Anya, it’s an everyday Volvo,” said Kori. “Why is one of the richest men in the country driving a Volvo?”
“Why is he driving at all?” said Anya. “He has a driver. With a Rolls. Why the switch?”
“Guess we’ll find out. Here he comes.” The two agents scrunched down in their seats as the Volvo drove past. Then Anya put the Hyundai in drive and the pursuit continued. The Volvo drove slowly, forcing Anya to drive much slower than she was accustomed to. She repeatedly had to lay off the gas to keep a decent distance between her and Holland. A few times, Holland got a green traffic light and Anya arrived at the intersection after the light had turned red. But she didn’t allow a red light to stop her for long. As soon as the traffic cleared, she’d forge ahead.
“I hope we don’t get pulled over,” Kori said after one such excursion through a red light.
“I will plead ignorance,” Anya said. “Red lights, green lights, driving on the left—who can keep track of it all?”
The cars meandered for several miles until, finally, the agents found themselves driving down familiar streets.
“Rothton!” Kori said.
“One and the same,” Anya nodded. “What is our man doing here, of all places?”
They watched as the Volvo took a turn toward the river Thames, past unkempt red brick buildings. Soon it stopped in front of a sleazy-looking pub that the agents recognized immediately.
“I’ll be damned,” Kori said.
The Volvo parked and Sir John Holland, dressed in a suit that was probably worth more than the pub itself, strolled into the dank joint, past the sign out front, with the darkened “u” and “i,” that announced “Louie’s.”